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  A LIGHT IN THE DESERT

  A Novel

  A LIGHT IN THE DESERT

  A Novel

  ANNE MONTGOMERY

  Blank Slate Press | Saint Louis, MO 63116

  Copyright © 2018 Anne Montgomery

  All rights reserved.

  For information, contact:

  Blank Slate Press

  An imprint of Amphorae Publishing Group

  a woman- and veteran-owned business

  4168 Hartford Street, Saint Louis, MO 63116

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Any real people or

  places are used in a purely fictional manner.

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Set in Milo and Adobe Garamond Pro

  Interior designed by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Cover Design by Kristina Blank Makansi

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2018946954

  ISBN: 9781732139114

  This book was inspired by and is dedicated to my dear friend Sergeant Don Clarkson, a Green Beret who served in Vietnam with the 9th Infantry ARVN Soldiers from December 1968 to November 1970. Don died in 2010 from complications of Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder and Agent Orange poisoning.

  For you are all children of light, children of the day.

  We are not of the night or of the darkness.

  —1 Thessalonians 5:5

  Do not remember the sins of my youth, nor my

  transgressions;

  According to Your mercy remember me …

  Look on my affliction and my pain,

  And forgive all my sins.

  —Psalm 25

  BEFORE

  ARIZONA, 1995

  THE MOONLIGHT ILLUMINATED the desert floor as the boys walked along the tracks. A single voice, loud and brash, carried easily down the sandy wash and up the side of the ragged mound of basalt where the man lay hidden. Belly down on the jumble of volcanic rocks, he watched and listened, just like he’d been trained.

  “Fuck ’em!” the larger boy cried, slinging a beer can at a nearby saguaro. The alcohol and weed, as usual, made him agitated. Anger would come next.

  With his binoculars, the man saw an amateurish tattoo resembling some sort of cat on the boy’s upper left arm. A faded flannel shirt—unbuttoned, sleeves ripped out—fluttered open as he marched across the trestle, baring his pale chest to the warm desert air. The other boy, much smaller and darker, walked a good ten yards behind, hands deep in his pockets, head down as if slowly counting the railroad ties as he went.

  Rocks pressed into the man’s body, but he had learned long ago to will away physical pain. He remained perfectly still, blending into the mountain that, even when the harsh desert sun shone at its brightest, was known for its blackness.

  “He’ll get his!” the larger boy barked. He reached down, gripping a thick, rusted eight-inch nail—an iron railroad spike—and hurled it into the wash thirty feet below.

  Only when the boys had been enveloped by the darkness far down the track did the man finally stand and slip silently into the night.

  1

  KELLY GARCIA SAT CROSS-LEGGED before the dusty grave, a cluster of blood-red bougainvillea in her lap. She finished the last orange wedge and, remembering the compost heap, stuffed the peel inside the front pocket of her faded sundress, the fabric of which strained to cover her bulging belly.

  It wasn’t the first time Kelly had visited the graves of the tiny ones. The metal crosses, which had finally replaced the crumbling wooden ones, marked the graves of Maria and Gregorita Amabisca, infants born in the Gila River Valley not long after the turn of the century, neither of whom had survived even one month in the living world. Where were the infants’ little spirits now? Had they gone? Or did they spend their days here, hiding behind the old gravestones and scattered creosote bushes? Were they tiny, elf-like creatures, darting about like butterflies but always just out of sight? Or had they, as the Children explained, been lifted off to Paradise?

  She felt the baby move. Would her child live long enough to grow up or would God take the baby to heaven instead? If the child was born with a face like hers, perhaps floating in the clouds with the angels would be better. Angels, she knew, must certainly be kinder than people.

  She reached over and touched the polished pink granite stone covering her father’s grave. Money was scarce, but when the uniformed men arrived, they said her father had been a war hero. They handed her mother a folded American flag and made sure Bryan Kelly received a proper burial and a grave marker. Now his tarnished Silver Star, attached to its red, white and blue ribbon, rested in a velvet box under Kelly’s bed.

  She traced the letters spelling out her father’s surname. Her last name was no longer Kelly. His quirky sense of humor had rendered her Kelly Kelly, but after he stuck the gun in his mouth, her mother had insisted that Kelly Kelly was not a suitable name, blaming the appellation on her father’s Irishness, and demanding she take the name of her stepfather.

  A hot breeze from the flat, sparsely cultivated land south of the cemetery lifted dust and grit, blowing Kelly’s ink-black hair away from her damaged face. Her father always smiled when saying her name. Kelly Kelly made a happy sound, he said, like bird song or a cricket’s chirp. All she had left of him now were the medal, the grave, and the odd blue eyes that struggled against her dark features. The long straight hair was a gift from her mother’s Maricopa ancestors. Her face? No one was sure where that had come from.

  Kelly looked up. The sun was sinking down behind the mountains, shooting streaks of light across the Sonoran Desert sky and dying the clouds the color of pink and purple Easter eggs.

  Suddenly, she realized she was late for dinner. The Children of the Light did everything on schedule, so she had to hurry. She picked up the bougainvillea branches that would grace the communal dining table and pushed herself off the ground. Momentarily losing her balance, she clutched the branches tightly and felt a thorn prick her finger. She wished the baby would come soon. She was tired of feeling awkward. So as not to stain her dress, she quickly sucked the blood that oozed from the wound, then turned and walked up the dirt road that wound back to the compound.

  2

  JASON RAMM DROPPED the box of battered bricks into the bed of his truck. He turned to make another trip up the hill to one of the Rowley Mine’s tumbled-down out buildings when he heard soft moaning. Ramm stepped over rocky ground as quietly as he could and stopped at the edge of the mine’s main shaft. Cool air rushed from the gaping hole. He crouched, tipping the brown, dirt-encrusted cowboy hat back on his head as he stared into the darkness.

  The whimpering continued.

  The inch-thick, iron cable—left from the mine’s working days—was rusty and twisted, but Ramm knew it was still secure. He grabbed hold and edged his way down the shaft. The wall of the Rowley Mine had a sixty-percent incline, but was fairly simple for him to negotiate, especially when compared to some of the jagged cliffs and man-made structures he had rappelled in the past. A two-foot band of turquoise-colored chrysocolla guided him as he dropped about forty feet to where the shaft floor leveled. He stood, but at six-foot-three, he had to stoop to keep from hitting his head on the rock ceiling.

  He saw the dog crumpled in the corner. Was it some feral thing, perhaps the offspring of a coyote and a wild dog, the kind of animal many ranchers in the area shot on sight? Ramm edged closer, fully aware of the damage a wounded creature could inflict. He spotted the barbed wire wrapped tightly around the dog’s legs and torso and instinctively drew the six-inch blade he wore strapped to his belt. A quick slice would end the animal’s suffering.

  Later, Ramm struggled on the uneven shaft and shifted the weight of the old parka slung
over his back. The dog whimpered and Ramm whispered, “Hold on. It’ll be okay.”

  Finally, he pulled himself up over the lip of the mine and laid the dog on the pebbled ground in the bright Arizona sunlight. He estimated the animal weighed about seventy pounds, not much less than that Texas boy he’d carried out of the jungle who, thanks to a mortar round, had lost much of his bulk when both legs had been blown off at the hip. Ramm examined the tightly-wound barbed wire. He thought again about slitting the creature’s throat, but the animal had a strong heartbeat, and he was weary of killing. He hoisted the dog into his arms and walked toward the truck.

  Back at his place, Ramm carefully cut the barbed wire which overlapped crazily and cut deeply into the dog’s flesh. Eventually, he managed to snip the metal into small pieces that he extracted. When the dog’s legs slipped free of the binding, Ramm saw that she was female and that she had been tortured. Crude swastika carvings bloodied her belly. Some of Ramm’s peers in Vietnam had often marked their prey, identifying the deceased as a product of their work, but that had never been his style.

  He was glad the dog was unconscious as he cleaned and disinfected the wounds. The wire cuts and carvings on her belly were not life threatening, but she also had a large swollen spot, probably incurred in the fall down the shaft, on the left side of her head. And her right front leg was broken. The fracture appeared to be several weeks old. Was that the reason her tormentors had been able to catch her?

  While he bathed the dog, he noticed faint markings on her neck for the first time. She had once worn a collar. Had she been dumped in the desert like so many others? Animals left to forage for themselves or link up with a pack, if they were lucky. For most, abandonment meant a cruel death by starvation, dehydration, or poison. The fortunate ones never survived the interstate.

  The dog slept for several hours and Ramm was careful to not make any sudden movements or loud noises. After she woke, he sat on the front steps of his cabin with a plate of cooked chicken.

  “Good girl,” he said when the dog finally accepted food from his hand. He put another piece of chicken in his palm and held it out. With the exception of a slightly bent front leg, she’d recover from the abuse.

  Together, they finished the chicken and Ramm put the plate on the bottom step for the dog to lick. When she was done, she curled up next to him, looking up at him with deep brown eyes.

  “Who did this to you?” he said, scratching the dog’s neck. He didn’t put his own killing in the same category as those who harmed animals. He didn’t torture his victims. When he killed, the moment of impact, regardless of the weapon, was instantaneous, and he believed quite painless. He prided himself on neat, clean finishes.

  The dog, favoring the bad leg, hobbled into the yard. She sniffed around the base of a spidery ocotillo, then relieved herself near a black basalt boulder. Ramm leaned back and watched as the Sonoran Desert sky provided another evening light show over the distant mountains. He’d come here looking for peace. He’d had so little in his life. The dog nudged his hand.

  “Tomorrow, I’ll get you some real food, Dog. No more cooked chicken for you. Don’t want you getting spoiled.”

  3

  THE SCREEN DOOR of Hyder’s Butterfield General Store banged shut behind Ramm, jingling the brass cowbell. Behind the counter, Tom Pace raised his hand in a friendly greeting. “Hey, stranger. Haven’t seen you in a couple a weeks.”

  “Been workin’ on the house. Collecting those old bricks from what’s left of the Rowley Mine structure. I hope to finish up the fireplace in the next couple of days.” Ramm took the cardboard box the shop owner handed him and began filling it with groceries.

  “Better watch the company that owns the place don’t catch you shaggin’ them bricks. You’ll get fined for sure.”

  Ramm smiled as he reached for a five-pound sack of sugar. “I’m not worried.” He dismissed Tom’s comment because he was the company. The Rowley Mine and the surrounding two hundred acres of desert wilderness belonged to him, but if anyone tried to find out who the owner was, they’d get tangled in a labyrinthine web of corporations. He’d made sure of that. No one would find his name on anything.

  Ramm loaded the cardboard box with bacon, eggs, five pounds of flour, coffee, frozen chicken parts, hamburger, cereal, milk, and a pound of butter. Since his appetite seemed to be coming back, he wished he could get a nice fillet, maybe some seafood. Fresh tuna steak, thinly sliced, slightly seared, with some soy sauce and wasabi. He was hungry. But Ramm knew better than to ask for any of those items at the Butterfield General Store. Not only would Tom Pace not stock such things, Ramm wanted to make sure no one thought he was anything other than what he appeared to be.

  After placing his groceries on the counter, he picked up another empty box.

  “Let me guess,” the storeowner said. “I’ll bet there’ll be no meat in that box.” Tom grinned, exposing a missing upper tooth. “They wanna be vegetarians, that’s their business, ya know? But that not-havin’-sex-thing. I’m not sure I could do that.”

  Ramm burst out laughing, probably the first time he’d done so spontaneously in years. Maybe the desert was doing him some good. “Shit, Tom! When’s the last time you had sex with someone other than your own right hand?”

  Tom laughed. “Well, ya know, Hyder ain’t got many eligible ladies.”

  “Just a bunch of old drunks and a few of us diehard cowboys. And the Children.”

  “Guess it keeps us outta trouble,” the shopkeeper grinned.

  “Oh! I almost forgot. You got any of those big sacks of dog food?”

  “Got yourself a dog?”

  “No, Tom. I’m gonna feed it to Becky. And speaking of my horse, I’m getting low on feed. Can you order me some?”

  “Okay, don’t tell me.”

  Ramm watched Tom scribble on the yellow pad by the register. The grizzled storeowner was the town gossip. The man knew everything about everybody, and Ramm had utilized this predilection extensively when he’d first come to Hyder to hide. He’d fed the man information setting up a cover he knew Tom would spread around to anyone in the area who would listen. All the talk had made Ramm’s acceptance in the tiny desert town that much easier.

  When the groceries were tightly packed in several cardboard boxes, the two men carried them outside.

  “She’s out in the truck,” Ramm said, nodding toward the unobtrusive brown pickup. “I found her in the Rowley Mine’s main shaft. Someone cut her up, wrapped her in barbed wire, and dumped her. I call her Dog.”

  “That’s original.” Tom shook his head. He had no wife or children, but he did have two mongrel dogs that were as devoted to him as he was to them. “What kinda assholes would do a thing like that? Can’t imagine.”

  Ramm shook his head. “Me either.”

  After stowing the supplies in the bed of the truck, Ramm climbed in, waved goodbye, and pulled onto the one-lane road that fronted the store and ran parallel with the Southern Pacific Railroad tracks.

  Moments later, he passed an old man towing an ancient nag with a rope halter. Tom had told him Nunzio had been a miner and a migrant farmhand. Now he wandered the area, dragging that old roan around packed to the hilt with all his belongings. Hyder’s version of a vagrant.

  Ramm had traveled several miles when he noticed the smoke. He steered the truck onto the south shoulder of the road and watched as thick black coils rose like twisting cobras, blotting out the clear, blue desert sky. Fire leaped from the wooden railroad overpass, one of hundreds between Phoenix and Los Angeles. A creosote bush burst into flames, oily leaves igniting en masse.

  Ramm stared into the fire. What had started the blaze in such a desolate place? Lightning was out. The country road, a straight black ribbon with views of nothing but dusty desert scrub, rarely drew visitors, and locals certainly knew better than to toss a lighted cigarette to the ground. Besides, on a windless day like this, a burning butt could not travel the twenty-five yards out to the trestle.

  Soot
y smoke enveloped the tracks as brilliant orange flames danced on desiccated desert foliage. Adrenaline surged through Ramm. Did he see something moving? Frantically, he scanned the scene again. Now he saw the blond boy clearly, face blackened, limping out of the swirling smoke, bloody stumps where his hands had been. The familiar stench of burning flesh hit Ramm with the force of a live grenade.

  “Kill me!” the boy pleaded in a strangely toneless voice. “For God’s sake! Kill me!”

  Ramm’s hands gripped the wheel. He squeezed his eyes shut. Sweat soaked his T-shirt. He forced himself to breathe deeply, tried to will the panic away. Finally, he opened his eyes.

  4

  “EXCUSE ME, but I think you should see this.”

  Buck James, the owner of the only gas station in Dateland, glanced over the top of his sports page at the plump, fortyish, shirt and tie in the doorway. “That’ll be fifteen even for the gas.”

  “Okay. Right. But I really think you need to take a look in your restroom.”

  Buck eased his bulk off the ripped black Naugahyde barstool, knowing the city boy was probably freaking over something stupid. A spider, maybe, or a little snake.

  “It’s right over there. In the bathroom. By the sink.” The man stepped back and pointed.

  Buck walked over and grabbed the latch. Paint, faded by the desert sun and of no discernible color, etched the door with spidery cracks. Buck glanced at the man, smiled, and opened the door.

  “It’s dynamite, isn’t it?”

  “I’ll take care of it,” the station owner answered, flinging his cigarette to the ground by the door. He crushed the butt with the heel of his battered work boot. “You move on now.”

  “But—”

  “But what, buddy? Didn’t you hear me? Just give me the fifteen bucks for the gas and get the hell out of here. I’ll take care of it. Move!”